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Her very first draught of vital air
It was not the common chamelion fare
Of plebeian lungs and noses,-

No—her earliest sniff

Of this world was a whiff
Of the genuine Otto of Roses !

When she saw the light—it was no mere ray
Of that light so common—so everyday-

That the sun each morning launches-
But six wax tapers dazzled her eyes,
From a thing—a gooseberry bush for size-

With a golden stem and branches.

She was born exactly at half-past two,
As witness'd a time-piece in or-molu

That stood on a marble table-
Showing at once the time of day,
And a team of Gildings running away

As fast as they were able,
With a golden God, with a golden Star,
And a golden Spear, in a golden Car,

According to Grecian fable.

Like other babes, at her birth she cried ;
Which made a sensation far and wide,

Aye, for twenty miles around her ;
For though to the ear 'twas nothing more
Than an infant's squall, it was really the roar

Of a Fifty-thousand Pounder!

It shook the next heir

In his library chair,
And made him cry“ Confound her!”

Of signs and omens there was no dearth,
Any more than at Owen Glendower's birth,
Or the advent of other great people:

Two bullocks dropp'd dead,
As if knock'd on the head,
And barrels of stout

And ale ran about,
And the village-bells such a peal rang out,

That they crack'd the village-steeple.

In no time at all, like mushroom spawn,
Tables sprang up all over the lawn;
Not furnish'd scantily or shabbily,

But on scale as vast
As that huge repast,
With its loads and cargoes

Of drink and botargoes,
At the Birth of the Babe in Rabelais.

Hundreds of men were turn'd into beasts,
Like the guests at Circe's horrible feasts,

By the magic of ale and cider:
And each country lass, and each country lad,
Began to caper and dance like mad,
And even some old ones appear’d to have had

A bite from the Naples Spider.

Then as night came on,

It had scared King John,
Who considered such signs not risible,

To have seen the maroons,
And the whirling moons,
And the serpents of flame,

And wheels of the same,
That according to some were 66 whizzable.”

Oh, happy Hope of the Kilmanseggs !
Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs

That her parents had such full pockets!
For bad she been born of Want and Thrift,
For care and nursing all adrift,
It's ten to one she had had to make shift

With rickets instead of rockets !

And how was the precious Baby drest?
In a robe of the East, with lace of the West,
Like one of Croesus's issue-

Her best bibs were made

Of rich gold brocade,
And the others of silver tissue.

And when the Baby inclined to nap
She was lulld on a Gros de Naples lap,
By a nurse in a modish Paris cap,

Of notions so exalted,
She drank nothing lower than Curaçoa,
Maraschino, or pink Noyau,

And on principle never malted.

From a golden boat, with a golden spoon, The babe was fed night, morning, and noon ;

And altho' the tale seems fabulous, 'Tis said her tops and bottoms were gilt, Like the oats in that Stable-yard Palace built

For the horse of Heliogabalus.

And when she took to squall and kick-
For pain will wring and pins will prick
E'en the wealthiest nabob's daughter-
They gave her no vulgar Dalby or gin,
But a liquor with leaf of gold therein,

Videlicet,-Dantzic Water.

In short, she was born, and bred, and nurst,
And drest in the best from the very first,

To please the genteelest censor-
And then, as soon as strength would allow,
Was vaccinated, as babes are now,
With virus ta’en from the best-bred cow

Of Lord Althorpe's—now Earl Spencer.

Wer Christening.

Though Shakspeare asks us, “What's in a

name?” (As if cognomens were much the same,)

There's really a very great scope in it.

A name?-why, wasn't there Doctor Dodd,
That servant at once of Mammon and God,
Who found four thousand pounds and odd,

A prison—a cart—and a rope in it?

A name?—if the party had a voice,
What mortal would be a Bugg by choice?
As a Hogy, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice?
Or
any

such nauseous blazon ? Not to mention many a vulgar name, That would make a doorplate blush for shame,

If doorplates were not so brazen !

A name?—it has more than nominal worth,
And belongs to good or bad luck at birth-

As dames of a certain degree know.
In spite of his Page’s hat and hose,
His Page's jacket, and buttons in rows,
Bob only sounds like a page of prose

Till turn'd into Rupertino.

Now to christen the infant Kilmansegg,
For days and days it was quite a plague,

To hunt the list in the Lexicon :
And scores were tried, like coin, by the ring,
Ere names were found just the proper thing

For a minor rich as a Mexican.

Then cards were sent, the presence to beg
Of all the kin of Kilmansegg,

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